


Willow Weep For Me

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel [27]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Facials, Hair-pulling, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Light Bondage, M/M, Minor Character Death, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Police, Rentboys, Rough Sex, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:46:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3543239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mr Castro," he says, flashing me his warrant card, "you've gotten away with a lot since you started operating here, but this is one fix you aren't going to wriggle out of."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Plenty of perfectly good cafes and bars on our turf, and where does he pick for this meeting? A dingy little place on the outskirts, an hour's drive away, with peeling paint and cracked windows, and flies buzzing round the empties that no-one's bothered collecting yet. This is such an out-of-the-way location, if I didn't have Foster waiting outside, I'd be worried the Inspector was planning to do me in.

"You've spared no expense tonight, have you?" I grin at him, and sit down at the table. "Must be something good, if you're spoiling me this much."

"Don't get smart with me," Hudson says, banging his cup down so hard that the guy behind the counter wakes up and gives us a groggy look, just for a moment, before he drifts back off to sleep again.

"Alright, don't get excited, Inspector." I know it's stupid, but I still can't help baiting guys like him, even when I'm supposed to be keeping it professional. If I've got to deal with coppers, I might as well have fun doing it, right? "Well, come on, what's this about, then?" I carry on, keeping that grin firmly in place. "We've already paid up this month, and I know you're not stupid enough to squeeze us for more."

"The Superintendent needs a favour," he says, glaring at me.

"Oh, this is rich," I laugh. "All that palaver last year about how much of a burden we are to you guys, and now _you_ want a favour from _me_?"

"Listen, Castro," he growls. "If I had my way, I'd be sending my boys around to deal with this, and the whole thing would be wrapped up in a few hours. But the Superintendent wants to try the soft approach first, and what the old man wants, the old man gets."

"Sounds familiar," I say, trying to suppress another laugh. "Alright, what's this favour?"

"We're being audited."

"Oh, I get it. You want the auditor in your pocket, and you want my boys to help him on his way."

"That's right," Hudson says, sourly. "The old man wants this done quietly, so to start off with, we'll throw a few of your tarts at the guy." He pauses, and that grim face gets a bit brighter. "If that doesn't stick, then my boys'll get it done."

"Well, what's he into? I'm not agreeing til I know whether we've got what he wants on the books."

"Blonds," he says, grimacing a bit, as if the guy having a preference offends him. "And plenty of them. He'll want four boys at a time, once a week."

I raise an eyebrow. "How long for?"

"Three months."

"Four of my boys, once a week, for twelve weeks…." I breathe in slowly and loudly, like a workman surveying a pricey job. "That's a big commitment, Inspector."

"You can handle it," he says, giving me a nasty smirk. "You'd better, if you want to stay on the old man's good side."

"It all depends whether you need my specialists or not." I keep my eyes on his, and I smile at him steadily. "Is this guy into the rough stuff? Does he want any acting?"

Hudson shakes his head, and says "No rough stuff, and no acting. They could be cardboard cut-outs for all he cares, as long as they look right."

"Alright, then," I say, starting to put the roster together in my mind. "You can tell the Superintendent it's as good as sorted."

 

* * *

 

"What's all this," Terry laughs, as he glances around the room, "are we shooting an ad for Air Sweden?"

It's a striking sight, I'll give him that. Every blond boy on the books is here, and looking at them all at once, you almost need sunglasses. We've got them all: peroxide-blond delinquents, platinum-blond bombshells, strawberry-blond coquettes, and even a few golden-haired nice boys. But looking at them, I still can't help feeling like we haven't got enough. This auditor wants four per week, for twelve weeks, with the maximum variety he can get. By my reckoning he's going to start getting déjà vu by Week Seven. If we're going to do this properly, we need backup.

"Come on, settle down," I say, letting my voice get a bit sharper than usual. "The sooner we get started, the sooner we can all get out of here, so let's get on with it, eh?"

They quieten down quickly, and all of a sudden I've got twenty blonds looking right at me, some smiling, some smirking, some raising an imperious eyebrow. First time I called a staff meeting like this, I was terrified. This kind of thing, it doesn't come naturally to me, I'm just not the management type. Even now, I'll take a club full of old lechers over a packed staff room, any day of the week.

"Now then," I say, scanning the room for the friendliest-looking face, and pitching my first line at him. "Like you've all probably guessed, we've got a big new client, and this one's got a taste for blonds."

"No kidding!" Vince pipes up from the back of the room, and when I glance at him, he's got his arms folded and a cocky smirk on his lips.

"This is going to take four of you, once a week, for three months," I carry on, "and the client wants as few repeats as possible."

"Don't we all," Terry says, with a quiet chuckle.

"Funny you should say that, Terry," I say, giving him a nice big smile, "because you and David are going to be the regulars on this job. Every week, either you or him is going to be there, along with three of the less-experienced boys."

"One veteran and three rookies?" Terry grins at me, and shrugs. "Sounds like a good opportunity to show off."

"And," I carry on, letting that one go, "you'll have Foster with you for security every time."

"Security?" A soft little voice chimes in, from the side of the room. It's our newest boy, Miles, who does one of the most convincing innocent-acts I've ever seen. "Does that mean this client's a high-risk one?"

"It's just a precaution, but yeah. That's the other thing I need to run by you boys, before anyone signs up for this." I pause for a moment, and let the smile fade from my lips. "This client isn't a copper now, but he used to be one, so if any of you want to opt out of this, that's fine by me."

"Yes," Miles says, with a little frown darkening his face. "I'd like to opt out, please, Johnny. Even if he's ex-police, it's still too close for me to be comfortable with."

"Yeah, me too," Vince says, nodding. "An ex-copper's still a copper."

"Alright," I say, giving them both a smile. "Anyone else that wants to opt out can come and tell me later, and if I'm not around, tell Tommy or David. As far as I'm concerned, the usual rule applies double when it comes to coppers: no-one does any jobs they're not happy with, so if you want out, you're out, no questions asked—and for that matter, even if you sign up for this today and then get cold feet later on, you just let me know and I'll take you off the job. Alright?"

The boys nod, and say "Alright, Johnny," like a jumbled little chorus that can't quite sing in unison.

"Right then, that's it, we're done," I say, shooing the boys away. "What're you hanging around for? It's half an hour til opening time, don't stand there twiddling your thumbs, go on, get lost, the lot of you."

They do as they're told fairly quickly, even the ones who normally dawdle. Nothing like the prospect of a big job to get the cogs turning upstairs, is there? If I know my boys, every one of them's going to be giving this some careful thought, and even the boys who sign up with a shrug and a smile, they'll have pondered it long and hard first. That's one of the rules of thumb I try to instil in them: if you're a Cloud Nine boy, you look before you leap.

A hand touches me lightly on the shoulder, and when I look around, I've got David following me, with his lips drawn into a soft frown. "Johnny," he says, quietly, "we need to have a little chat."

"Don't tell me _you've_ got cold feet?" I laugh. "If my veterans start getting queasy about this stuff, we'll be bankrupt in a year."

"No, nothing like that." He gives me a strained smile. "It's the particulars of this job that are worrying me. I'm not sure if we can provide what this client wants, Johnny."

I head into the office, and wave for him to follow me. "I was thinking the same thing."

"If he wants as few repeats as possible," David says, hovering in the doorway with a nervous look in his eyes, "we'll be running low before we're halfway through the arrangement."

"I know, and it's worrying me, too." I sit down on the sofa, lean back, and close my eyes. "But we need to do this job. We need to keep Cole happy. If we get those new rooms put in next year, we're going to need a lot more cooperation from him and Hudson, otherwise every swindling copper on their patch is going to be down here trying to raid us."

"Well, if it's really that vital, then I suppose we've got no choice…" David's voice trails off weakly. He sounds like he's agreeing to have a limb amputated.

"Yeah, there's nothing for it," I say, opening my eyes, and giving him a big smile. "We'll have to ask Patrick for help."


	2. Chapter 2

When I first started recruiting off the street, me and David had a bit of a dust-up about it. _You can't go around scooping up every boy you see,_ he said. _That's not recruiting, darling, that's running a halfway house._ But I don't hire every boy I see on a street corner. Just the ones that are too good to pass up, and the ones who aren't going to make it on their own. The vast majority of them, the average boys, the successful ones who're happy to work independently, I leave them well alone. It's the high-performers and the no-hopers that I want, and if a boy ticks both of those boxes, then there's pretty much nothing I wouldn't do to get hold of him.

"That one," I say, pointing across the street, to the boy standing next to the lamppost. "Pull up next to the short one with the black leather jacket."

"Sure thing, Johnny." Tommy glances around and flashes me a grin. He loves driving me around, and I reckon the thing he loves best of all is driving me to pickups. Even if I don't let him get involved, he seems to get a big kick out of just being here. Turning into a real little voyeur, that kid. Which I guess is an occupational hazard for anyone who's around me as much as Tommy.

As soon as I start winding the window down, the boy in the leather jacket pushes himself up from leaning against the lamppost, and strolls slowly across.

"You looking for company?" he says, in a soft, quavering voice that doesn't quite fit with the leather and the sneer on his face. He looks younger up close. Across the street I would've said twenty-five, but now I'd put him barely out of his teens. It's the dyed hair, jet-black and so glossy it looks almost blue where the light catches it. Putting that together with the leather jacket and the pasty, scowling face, it gives him an odd contradictory look, half tough and half fragile. Add in the fact that the October air's got him shivering inside that leather, and the overall effect is that I don’t know whether I want to slap him or put my arm around him. Maybe a bit of both.

"Sure." I give him a long, hot smile as I open the car door. "Get in."

He slides onto the backseat, about as close to me as he could get without sitting in my lap, and shuts the door behind him. "You got somewhere we can go?" he says, resting his hand on my thigh. "Or are we just driving?"

His fingers are like ice. He must have been standing out there for a good hour or so, and as much as I'm in the mood for a pickup, half of me just wants to get him indoors in front of a fire. "My apartment's not far," I say, slipping my arm around those narrow, freezing-cold shoulders. "How's that sound?"

"Fine," he says, shrugging. "I don’t care, makes no difference to me."

"Alright." I smile at him, and I phrase my next question carefully. "How much, then?"

He says a number, and it worries me on two counts: firstly, my boys charge more than that for a kiss on the cheek, and secondly, he hasn't bothered asking exactly what he's got to do to earn it. To me, that says he's in the habit of taking whatever he can get, and he's got no sense of his own worth. But who knows, maybe I'm wrong, maybe he's going to ramp the price up once he figures out I'm after the rough stuff.

"It doesn't depend on what I want to do, then?"

He shrugs again, and throws me a smirk. "You can do whatever you want to me, I'm up for anything." Which is a cute line, and it sounds great in theory, but that's the sort of bravado that gets you in over your head if you're not careful.

"Alright, let me tell you what I've got in mind." I watch his face as I list off what I'm after, and the look in his eyes just gets more and more mocking as I carry on. He even yawns a little bit, quietly and softly, when I get to the end. "Any of that going to be a problem?"

"Course not," he says, rolling his eyes. "Like I said, you can do whatever you want, I don't care."

That cocky attitude of his, it's going to be a great selling point if I can recruit him, but it's going to be a nightmare for me behind the scenes. "Here," I say, trying not to sigh as I pass him a bundle of notes. "You'll get the same again afterwards."

His eyebrows go up a bit as he counts the money, and then the surprise fades away into scorn, and he shrugs again. "Fine," he scoffs, and then a little flare of nervousness seems to light up his eyes, and much more quietly, he says "Thanks."

The thing is, even if this boy's no good at renting, he must be pretty strapped for cash if he's on the street at this time of year. No-one who had a choice would be standing there freezing to death in the middle of the night. Which means that no matter how this pickup goes, I need to give this boy a hand. My rule is, if a street renter's no good for Cloud Nine, I put him onto someone who can fix him up with a different job. Nothing fancy, nothing to write home about, but enough to keep you afloat if you needed it. They don't all take me up on it, obviously, but the ones that do, I feel like having them on-board is slowly making up for all the things I did when I was their age. I know it doesn't make up for anything, really. The past's over and done with, like I keep telling Tommy. Nothing you can do to change it, and nothing good's going to come of dwelling on it.

"Here we are," the kid says, once we've pulled up outside. He grins at me as we get out of the car, and when his eyes drift across to the renter, that grin gets a little bit sharper. He's always extra keen when we pick up this type of boy. I reckon it gives him a hit of nostalgia, seeing some cocky little punk swaggering around in a leather jacket, and that summons up a nasty streak you'd never guess he was harbouring.

"You live _here_?" The boy stands stock still and looks up at the front of the building, with that sneering mouth half-open. "You must be loaded."

"I do alright," I laugh, and beckon him from the steps. "Come on, I'm not standing out here all night."

He keeps quiet all the way up to our floor, and in the mirror of the lift, I can see the scowl on his face starting to thaw. By the time we step out onto the landing, it's softened so much that I figure it's worth trying a bit more chatter.

"What's your name, then?" I say, as Tommy unlocks the front door.

The boy shrugs, and says "Aaron, but you can call me whatever you want."

"Alright, Aaron," I say, swallowing a laugh. If he keeps trying this hard to be nonchalant, he's going to strain himself. "I'm Johnny, and that's Tommy."

"Sure, whatever." He smirks, shoves his hands in his pockets, and follows us inside.

Once we're in the lounge, Tommy crouches down to light the fire, and I can see Aaron's eyes brightening as he watches the flames spring up. I was exactly the same the first time I saw a gas fire in person. Nowadays I'm used to luxuries, but I never get tired of seeing the look on a boy's face when he sees his first gas fire or his first fridge or, best of all, the television. When me and Tommy first moved in here, I brought back any and every boy who made a pass at us, just for the pleasure of showing this place off to them.

"You want a drink?" I say, watching Aaron warming himself by the fire. He's got his hands stretched out towards the flames, and I can see his fingers trembling a bit. His lips are still set in a scowl, though, and with the orange light of the fire gleaming on all that glossy black leather and shining black hair, he reminds me of a scrawny little tomcat, the kind that sticks to your hearth like glue but hisses at you when you reach a hand out to pet him.

"Yeah," he says, glancing over his shoulder at me.

"Whiskey alright?" I gesture to Tommy, but he's already heading towards the drinks cabinet.

"Yeah, whatever, I don't mind," the boy shrugs, and when Tommy passes him his glass, he says "Thanks," quickly and softly, and knocks the whole shot back in one. The whiskey glistens on his lips, just for a moment, before he wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, and gives me a look that's half sullen, half eager.

"Warmed me right up, that did," he says, unzipping his jacket. All he's got underneath it is a little white t-shirt, cut so narrow and short that the hem of it barely skims his belt, and when he leans over to toss his leather onto the armchair, the t-shirt rides up and gives me a flash of pale, smooth skin. "D'you want to get started right now," he carries on, smirking as he watches me watching him, "or shall I put on a show to get you and your friend in the mood?"

"I'm in the mood right now," Tommy says, as he takes a step towards the boy. "I'm gonna give it to you good and proper, you ain't gonna be walking straight when I'm—"

"Hold your horses, you" I say, yanking the kid back by the arm. "Stand there and watch, and don't lay a hand on him til I tell you."

Aaron looks from me to Tommy and back again, and gives a soft little chuckle. "Is that how it is?" he says, smirking up at me. "Are you the boss of him, then?"

I laugh, and say "Close enough."

"I went out with a guy once who was into all that," the boy says, looking me up and down like he's trying to gauge how much of a beating I could give him. "He used to put me over his knee when I'd been bad." That smirk gets sharper and hotter. "Which, if you hadn't guessed, was a lot."

"Is that right?" I chuckle, but I don't believe him for a minute. He'll have been smacked around a bit, I reckon, but this disciplinarian boyfriend's just a spicy story he's thrown in to get me revved up. "You're the rebellious type, are you?" I grab hold of his arm, and pull him towards me. "Well, tonight I want to see some good behaviour. Think you're up to that?"

"Sure," he says, running his palm up over the lapel of my jacket, "I can be _real_ good, if that's what you're after…"

As soon as I let go of him, he sinks down onto his knees and gets to work unbuttoning my fly. Those fingers are soft and warm now, as they wrap around my cock, and that sneering mouth is softer still. He doesn't talk, or make much noise at all, except for the odd little grunt of exertion as he pushes down to take the last few inches. It's all in the way he holds himself, the way his brow furrows as he works, the way his eyes stare up at me on the upstrokes, narrow and blue and still a bit mocking, even now.

"Alright," I say, pulling him off by the hair, "go and give Tommy the same treatment."

The boy smirks, and says "If he's junior to you, shouldn't he get worse service? Or does he get to go first-class too, since he's your lackey?"

"I get whatever Johnny says I can have," the kid says gruffly, "so get that smart mouth over here."

Aaron rolls his eyes, but he stays on his knees and crawls over to Tommy as quickly and obediently as any meek nice boy ever did. His fingers curl around Tommy's cock, looking thinner and paler than ever against the thick dark flesh of his shaft, and again I'm struck by the mismatch that runs right through the boy. Delicate hands that squeeze and stroke as firmly as any tough-guy's would. A soft pink mouth that scowls and sneers, but slides down the whole length of Tommy's cock almost greedily. Pale blue eyes that mock you silently, even as they're watering from the strain. He's like one of those funny cocktails where the tastes don't quite match, and you end up finishing the lot, sip by sip, in the hopes of figuring it out.

"Think you're a real tough-guy, don't you?" Tommy says, gripping the boy's hair in both fists. "Nothing you couldn't take, eh?" And he shoves Aaron's head down roughly, forcing the boy all the way down, until that scowling face is buried in the kid's lap, and that pale throat is working desperately, tensing and swallowing, trying to stay open. Tommy holds him there for a couple of seconds, then hauls him up and yanks his head back hard. "Still feel like you could take anything?"

Aaron smirks, and says "Anything _you_ could dish out, Muscles."

"Shut that mouth," the kid says, gruffer than I've ever heard him, and when he shoves his cock back between the boy's lips, he pushes in hard and deep enough that Aaron should be flailing and choking. But he's not struggling at all, he's bracing himself against Tommy's thighs, stroking the thick muscle of each leg with those delicate fingers, and working that sneering mouth up and down along the length of his shaft so quickly and greedily that I reckon he might be trying to finish the kid off early, just to show him who's really in control. Well, I can tell you who's really in control, and it sure isn't either of those little punks.

"Tommy," I say sharply, like I'm calling a dog off, "put him on all fours, I want to see you fuck him."

I'm expecting a bit of resistance, a bit of _Oh Johnny, can't I have his mouth a bit more, I ain't done yet, please Johnny, just another minute_. Instead I get a brief, business-like nod, and a curt "Sure, Johnny," and then the kid drags Aaron into position by the hair, as matter-of-fact about manhandling the boy as if he was moving crates down one of the warehouses. How many boys has he fucked on my command, over the last three years? Must be getting on for a hundred, now. Watching him lubing Aaron up, it occurs to me: this must be how it feels when Joe watches one of his guys putting the squeeze on someone. You watch those hands working, steady and fast, and it makes you think of all the practice he's put in, all the half-bodged jobs early on, all the fine-tuning he's done over the years. You watch the determination in his face, the easy confidence, and you get a little second-hand thrill, because those might as well be your hands working, your eyes watching, your lips frowning in concentration.

"Man, he's tight," Tommy says, with a gruff little laugh, once he's in to the hilt. "Talks real big, this one, but he ain't been round the block half as much as he says, Johnny."

Aaron twists around to scowl at the kid, and says "Yeah, and what would you know about it, Muscles? You think you're some kind of expert?"

"Yeah, as it happens," Tommy snaps, and as he starts to move, there's as much annoyance in each thrust of those hips as there is lust. "Seen enough boys in my time to tell who's all talk and no action, ain't I, Johnny?"

I tut, and shake my head. "Stop flapping your jaws and get on with it."

"Yeah, shut it, Muscles," the boy says, letting that scowl blossom into a smirk.

"Both of you," I snap, "shut those smart mouths and get your minds on the job."

For a moment it actually works. Just a few seconds, but they're glorious. Tommy holds the boy's waist in both hands and gives it to him hard and fast, and Aaron takes it like a veteran, lapping up every ounce of force the kid gives him, and the only noise I can hear is their breathing, their quiet little grunts and moans, and the slapping of Tommy's hips battering against the boy's ass. And then, just when I'm starting to think I've got them both brought to heel, the little punk has to start it all back up again.

"Yeah, that's right," Tommy says, with another rough laugh, "you just kneel there and take it, Short Stuff."

"Take what?" Aaron scoffs. "Feels like a gentle warm-up to me."

"You little—" the kid growls, and grabs hold of Aaron's wrists. He's got both of those thin arms are twisted up behind the boy's back before I've said a word.

"Careful," I say, circling around them to get a better view. "You break him, kid, you bought him."

"Not much chance of that," Aaron says, even as he's gasping and wincing in pain. "I've had rougher rides off first-timers."

Tommy mutters something that sounds like half a threat and half a curse, and ramps his pace up high enough that I can see the boy's legs shaking from the force of it. It's like watching one of those fights between street-punks, where you've got a wiry little scrapper with no sense of self-preservation throwing himself at someone twice the size. Aaron's so small-built I reckon Tommy could snap him with one hand, but he's got the ego and the temper of a rock-solid bruiser. It needs channelling, moulding into something he can deploy as and when needed, otherwise it's going to be a nightmare for me and a liability for him.

"Smart-mouthed little punk…" Tommy hisses, yanking hard on the boy's hair. "Someone needs to shut you up good and proper."

"Oh yeah?" Aaron laughs, and the laugh trails off into a groan. "And who's going to do that, eh? You got some tough-guy lined up to take over once you're tired out, Muscles?"

I don't know if it's the backchat or all that groaning, but whatever it is, it's got Tommy at boiling point. He glances back over his shoulder at me, with those big dark eyes full of desperation. "Johnny," he says, quietly and tautly, "Johnny, please…"

"Alright." I give him the nod, but only after a few seconds of enjoying him squirm.

The boy ramps up all that gasping and moaning as Tommy finishes, and for a moment it's like they're trying to outdo each other, and whoever makes the most noise wins a prize. Well, I know who's got first place, but Aaron does a solid silver-medal performance, and it's more than enough to seal this deal.

"Out the way, kid." I pull Tommy back by the arm, and shove him aside. "Let's see how well you've warmed him up for me, shall we?"

Tommy wasn't kidding about the boy being tight. His ass grips me firmly, as smooth and soft as his fist would be, but so much warmer, and so wet and slippery with lube and come that I almost feel like I'm in his mouth again. Sliding my cock in where Tommy's has been just a few seconds before, that's the kind of thrill I could spend a thousand nights chasing. Probably a thousand pounds, too, if I didn't have someone around keeping an eye on my spending.

"You any meaner than your little friend, then?" the boy says, giving me a wet-lipped sneer. "Or d'you overpay just to make up for the half-hearted approach?"

He knows exactly what line to give me. Earlier on I was saying he needs moulding, but I was wrong, or at least only half-right. He's already making that attitude work for him, I'd say. All he needs is a bit of extra tutoring. I could stick him doing pair-work with one of my veterans, maybe David or Anton, so he can pick up the subtler points. Give it a few months and he'd be right up there with my best workers.

"If you're feeling guilty about the high price, sweetheart," I say, yanking his head back hard, "then how about you just focus on putting your back into it? It's only overpaying if you aren't pulling your weight."

"Yeah," Tommy pipes up, from the sofa opposite us, "keep your trap shut and get on with it, Short Stuff."

"And you can zip it, too, unless you want to wait on the landing."

"Sorry, Johnny," the kid says, with more red in his cheeks now than a turn with this renter had given him.

"Hah," Aaron scoffs, but before he can launch into another string of barbs, I reach forward and clamp my hand over his mouth.

"That's enough lip," I say, fucking him in a nice, slow, grinding rhythm, "you just hold still and keep that mouth shut. Think you can do that for me?"

He makes a muffled, mocking little noise under my hand, and rolls his eyes.

"I'll take that as a Yes," I laugh, and take my hand away, expecting him to start right up with the backchat again. Instead all I hear from him is a long, soft moan. I guess even a boy like Aaron hits the point eventually where all he can do is hunker down and brace himself for what you're giving him. That's what gets me, after all of this. Not the bickering, not the sniping, not the needling. It's the quiet, quavering little groans that spill out of him as I step my pace up. He sounds like he's almost at his limit, and that means I'm rapidly approaching mine.

"Yeah, give it to him, Johnny," the kid says quietly, urging me on, and that's all I need, I'm done for. It's sudden and unstoppable, and it hits me like a ton of bricks. My grip on the boy tightens, and my nails dig into his skin so hard I can hear him yelping. He gasps and winces and moans, dragging every drop of pleasure out of me as mercilessly as any veteran renter ever did. When it's done, I can feel him trembling a bit underneath me, and I have to pull my hands away quickly, before I get ahead of myself and start reassuring him like you'd soothe a nervous rookie.

"Have a shower before you go," I say, as I get up. I'm anticipating a bit of pride getting in the way of him accepting the offer, so I give him a sheepish smile, and say "After all, we got you covered in lube, least we can do is let you get washed."

"Fine, whatever," the boy says, standing up on shaky legs, and then more quietly, he says "Thanks." Then he disappears off into the bathroom like a rabbit down a warren, leaving me and Tommy alone, grinning at each other and yawning.

"He was pretty good, wasn't he, Johnny?"

"He's definitely worth trying out. Might even end up in the top ten."

"Yeah," he laughs, "but you say that about all of them, don't you? Every new boy you scout, you reckon he's going to be the big new star, and how often does it pan out like that, eh?"

"I was right about Sam, wasn't I? He's been in the top ten for three months running now."

"Yeah, that's _one_ , out of how many? Honestly, Johnny, I reckon you've got about as much of a knack at predicting this stuff as that fortune teller down the fair."

"Well, we're doing alright for a joint run by a glorified palm-reader, aren't we?"

"Aw, Johnny, don't get sore," he says, coming up and putting his arms around my waist. "I'm just messing with you, I didn't mean it."

"Yeah, well…" I frown for a moment, and then those big dark eyes stare up at me and that pale pink mouth spreads from a smile into a grin, and I can't keep a straight face anymore. "Oh, alright, I give in, you've got me."

"Yeah, I've got you," he laughs, and reaches up to give me a kiss. "I always did."

A quiet cough comes from the direction of the doorway, and when I turn around, Aaron's standing there fully-dressed, with gleaming wet hair. "I've got to get going," he says, much meeker now, "so…"

"Oh right, the money." I smile at him, and reach over to get my wallet out of my jacket. "Here's the rest of it," I say, handing him another bundle of cash, along with a Cloud Nine card. "And here's my number. If you're ever in the market for a long-term job, give me a call."

"What," he says, giving me a cautious, sceptical look, "d'you mean you want to see me regularly?"

"No, I mean I want you to work for me."

He glances down at the card, and as he reads the text on it, a little smile starts forming on his lips. "You run this place?"

"Yeah, have you heard of us?"

"Not sure," he says, shrugging. "I might have. But hang on, if you've got this big fancy club, why d'you want me? Haven't you got boys beating down your door trying to get hired?"

"Sure," I laugh, "but sometimes the best guy for the job isn't the one who puts himself forward."


	3. Chapter 3

I guess it's a sign of how far the bond between us and them has come. In the old days, we got Ray and Patrick. Now, we get Sidney and Yves. It's a good thing, right? The fact that they trust us enough to send deputies in place of the real deal. And to be honest, we don't even really need these two. Most of this deal was agreed over the phone, but one thing me and Sidney have got in common is that neither of us ever passes up a chance to go out on a visit. I'll bet Sidney talked Ray's ear off convincing him that this needed a bit of on-the-ground oversight. I've done the same patter myself a hundred times. _The personal touch, there's no substitute for it, is there, sir?_ I wonder if Sidney sounds any more convincing about his spiel than I do.

"They're here, Johnny!" the kid calls out, sticking his head through into the office.

"Alright, keep your voice down, I can hear you."

I straighten my tie, and give my hair one last combing, and head down to the floor, with Tommy and David flanking me like pageboys. We're just in time to see the three of them making their entrance. And I say _three_ , because that's another thing me and Sidney have got in common: he never misses an opportunity to bring his boy along with him. Sidney is at the front of the group, looking like he always does, handsome and relaxed, glossy and immaculate, perfectly tailored and groomed. They must have made an absolute packet out of him, back when he rented. On his arm, he's got his boy, a brassy little goer called Scott. Now, that one you wouldn't make much money out of, but you'd have fun trying. When I first met him, he was a redhead, but now he's got it dyed the same dark mahogany-brown as Sidney's. I like him better this way, but I guess I'm biased. Dark hair and brown eyes does the trick for me every time.

Lagging a few paces behind them, there's Yves. I always feel a bit guilty when I see him, because of how his time over here went down. I feel like we didn't do him justice. He's a beautiful boy, there's no doubt about that, but we just didn't have the right punters to appreciate him. That bone-white skin, that jet-black hair, those outfits that look like he's going to the glitziest funeral you ever saw—all of that sailed clear over the heads of our clients. When Miller saw a photograph of Yves, he smiled and said _Oh, he's very avant garde, isn't he?_ And I reckon that's exactly the problem. We're twenty years away from having the client-base for a boy like Yves, and by the time the punters are ready for him, his look will be the kind of thing you see every day on the high street. I feel bad for him, but what can you do? This city is what it is, and the one thing it isn't, is modern.

"Evening, Sidney," I say, putting my hand out. "It's good to see you again. And who's this mysterious brunette, eh?" I grin at Scott. "Have you got so many top-quality boys round your way that you've brought me one of your spares?"

"You're so silly," the boy scoffs, rolling his eyes, but he's glowing at the compliment all the same.

"And Yves, it's nice to see you again, too," I say, putting my hand out to him once Sidney's done with it. He shakes it gently, with a cool, smooth touch that seems custom-built to give you the shivers.

"Likewise," he says, in that low, velvety voice. "Thank you for having us."

And then, from behind the three of them, another voice calls out, sweet and soft, like cream and honey. "David, darling! I do hope you don’t mind me surprising you like this…"

Just for a moment, you can see the answer to that written clearly on David's face. If you know what you're looking for, it's right there, plain as day. Yes, he minds, and no, he didn't particularly want to see the owner of that voice. But in that respect, he's on his own. Stefan's the type of guy I never get tired of seeing. He's a few years older than me, but he doesn't look it. He looks like he stepped right out of a film. He's all glittering jewellery and gleaming furs, with a pale, soft face, and the kind of silky-looking platinum hair you want to get both hands tangled up in. He's way out of my league, and we both know it, but somehow I never feel like it's a waste of time chatting him up.

"Hello again," I say, giving him a great big grin. "Didn't think we'd see you down this neck of the woods again in a hurry."

"Hello," Stefan says, giving me a brisk little smile, before he turns back to David. "I missed you _so_ much, I really couldn't wait until you came to visit again, especially not now that you've got Eric over here with you full-time—if I didn't tag along with Sidney, I'd never see you at all!"

"Oh, I'm sure it wouldn't be quite that bad," David says, slipping his arm around Stefan's shoulders. "But really, you must give me more warning next time. At least let me arrange to take the night off, next time you're thinking of coming over."

"Well, can't you just take the night off anyway?" Stefan says, pouting a bit. "Surely you can do as you please—after all, you are practically the deputy manager here, aren't you?"

"Well, if he is," I laugh, "it's news to me, sweetheart."

Stefan doesn't even look at me. He just keeps on pouting at David, and David keeps on smiling indulgently at him. The only person paying any attention to me is Tommy, who's grinning at me like this is the funniest thing he's seen all week.

"Listen," I say, deciding it's worth another try, "David's busy tonight, sure, but me and Tommy'll look after you, don't you worry."

"Oh, that's very kind," Stefan says, glancing at me again. "Be a sweetie and get me a drink, would you? Chablis would be wonderful, if you have it."

I let that one slide off me, and say "Tommy, sort the drinks out," and by the time the kid's taken everyone's orders and gone off to the bar, I've just about glued my ego back together.

"This place really does go from strength to strength, doesn't it?" Sidney gives me a broad smile, as we all sit down in the VIP section. "The club seems livelier than ever tonight."

"Thanks," I say, accepting the blunt flattery for what it is. "The club itself is doing great, but it's the external jobs we're struggling with."

"Yes, I understand you're looking to borrow some of our staff," Yves says, settling into his chair like a big, glittering black cat. "Patrick says you'll need about a dozen, is that right?"

"No, no, no," Sidney says, putting one hand up, "we're not going to talk business tonight, I'm far too tired."

"Aren't we?" Yves says, with the tiniest little sliver of frustration in his voice.

"No, we can leave all of that until tomorrow." Sidney's voice is warm, and smooth, and it's got about ten years of authority behind it, enough to cut through any obstacle it meets. "Tonight, let's just relax and have a little fun, shall we?"

"Well, you'll get no objections from me," I say, giving him my best sleazy grin. "After all, you're my guests, and what my guests want, my guests get."

 

* * *

 

How a boy can make that much noise with his mouth stuffed full of cock, I don't know. I guess Scott's a natural.

"Look at him," Sidney says, smiling at me, as he shoves his fingers a bit deeper into the boy's ass. "No matter how much you give him, he always wants more."

I laugh, and hold Scott's head still, gripping that glossy brown hair in both hands as I fuck his throat. "Wouldn't have him any other way, though, would you?"

"True, very true." Sidney spreads the boy's ass wider with his free hand, and starts to move his fingers faster and rougher, pistoning them in and out of Scott's ass hard enough that the boy starts to moan and wail around my cock. "Oh, you like that, don't you?" Sidney laughs, half mocking and half indulgent. "And there's only one thing you like more, isn't that right?"

The boy moans again, louder this time, and tugs against the rope binding his wrists.

"Come on, now," I say, pulling back so my cock rests against his cheek, "Sidney's asked you a question, so be a nice polite boy and give him an answer."

"You want a polite boy, you're barking up the wrong tree, both of you." Scott gives me a smug little smirk, and flicks his tongue out to lap at my shaft. "And if you want me to be nice to you, you'd better be nice to me…"

Sidney pulls his fingers out of the boy, and shoves his cock straight in, giving Scott the whole lot in one hard thrust. "When did you ever do _nice_ , eh?"

Whatever the answer to that is, it gets lost in a muffled groan, as I push my cock back into the boy's mouth. That tongue of his isn't exactly precise, but you can't fault him for enthusiasm. He can take a good hard fucking, and what's more he can do it better than some of my new starters.

"Nice wouldn't push your buttons one bit, would it?" I say, yanking hard on his hair, so he gives me a choked little answering groan.

"Only one way to push this boy's buttons," Sidney laughs, stepping his pace up a bit. You wouldn't think a guy as slender as him could give a boy that much force, but he hammers into Scott about as gently as your average bruiser. Every slam of his hips knocks a moan out of his boy, and those moans just get louder and louder as we go on.

"What a racket…" I say, tutting. "He's going to shout himself hoarse if he's not careful."

"That's about the only way I ever get any peace and quiet." Sidney chuckles, and I get a flash of déjà vu. I must have said the same line about Tommy a hundred times before, and I can't help wishing the kid was here now, so I could give him a little slap and say: _Look, your bad habits are rubbing off on poor Scott here…_

Last time Sidney and Scott were over here, Tommy came back to their suite with me, and having all four of us together made for the kind of night you don't forget in a hurry. Getting to nail Scott was just as much fun as you'd expect, but the best bit of all was watching Sidney and Tommy go at it. I was half-expecting Sidney to be lukewarm about Tommy, on account of he's so different to Scott, but it turns out Sidney likes a bit of muscle just as much as he likes the flimsy type. Watching those long, slender brown fingers working their way across Tommy's shoulders, down across the thick muscle of his back, down to the solid curve of his ass, that was worth the price of the suite all on its own. He felt Tommy up as keenly and thoroughly as if he was a physique connoisseur, and when he was done, I wouldn't have been surprised if he'd given the kid a ribbon for Best In Show.

For Tommy's part, I reckon Scott was the big draw. He fancied Sidney, sure, and he wouldn't shut up afterwards about how much he'd enjoyed getting fucked by the guy, but for Tommy the main event is always getting his hands on whatever pretty boy we've got with us. I swear, the older that kid gets, the more like me he becomes. Give it five or ten years, and he'll probably have a little punk of his own, trailing around after him, giving him a headache.

"You like that, don't you?" Sidney says, smooth and mocking, as he steps up his pace a bit more. "Never as happy as when you're getting it at both ends, are you?"

Scott moans around me, and I can feel his tongue sliding along the underside of my shaft, squirming and lapping at me, like he can't stay still for a moment. If he keeps on like this, he's going to drain me dry in about two seconds flat.

"The only way this could be any better for him," Sidney carries on, giving me a smile that's like looking in a mirror, "is if he had a guy in each hand, you know, just to keep those busy fingers occupied."

"Well," I say, grinning at him, "next time you two come over, maybe I'll bring along a couple of friends, and we can test that theory out."

Which must be the magic word, because all of a sudden, Scott's volume goes right up, and I can feel him tensing and shaking as he starts to come. That pasty, narrow back arches, and those thin fingers curl up into fists, those desperate moans become howls and sobs, and when he's done, you can just make out a subtle trembling in his arms and legs.

"Nearly did yourself a mischief there, didn't you?" Sidney says, as he strokes his hands down along the boy's sides. Then he glances up at me, barely breaking his rhythm, and says "Don't worry, he'll be good for another go."

"I know, I remember from last time." I say, with a chuckle. "I wouldn't mind taking care of the second round myself, though."

"Sure, no problem," he says, giving the boy one last thrust before he pulls out. "There, he's all yours, Johnny."

"You don't want to finish first?"

"No, I'll give it to him over his face," Sidney says, as if that's one-hundred-percent his own preference. Yeah, pure coincidence that he just happens to feel like putting on the showiest ending possible.

"Come on," the boy says, as soon as I've pulled out of his mouth, "are you just going to stand there and gawp?"

"Mind your manners, you," Sidney says, quietly and firmly. "He can stand and watch all night if he wants to."

And you know, I reckon he'd let me. That's the intoxicating thing about sessions with Sidney. He treats me like I'm on a level with him, like we're colleagues, like making me happy is just as important as pleasing himself. I expect that kind of treatment from my own guys, but getting it from Ray's second-in-command, that's something else.

"Yeah, but I need it…" Scott mutters, half desperate and half petulant.

"You'll get it, don't worry," I say, and I give him a light little slap on the cheek. "But you can't blame me for taking my time over a boy this good, can you?"

He scoffs, but it's true. I mean, look at him. He makes the kind of picture you wish you had a camera for. His face and torso are flushed pink, almost as dark as the red of his cock, which is still as hard as it was an hour ago. To look at him, you'd think we'd barely started. The only thing that gives him away is the little pool of come underneath him, and the few drops still trickling out of him, dripping down from the tip of his cock to splash against the bed.

"Just look at that, he's made for it, isn't he?" Sidney says, as he spread's Scott's ass wide open for me. He sounds more like a boy-peddler than I ever do, and he isn't even in the business. "What a sight… Makes you want to fuck him senseless, doesn't it?"

He's not kidding, either. The pink flesh of the boy's ass looks so swollen and sensitive, like the slightest touch might set him off again, and it's glistening with so much lube I reckon I could just push right in and he'd barely even flinch.

"I've been wanting that all night, before he even stripped off," I laugh, kneeling down between the boy's legs.

"Yeah, well, hurry up and get on with it, then," Scott says, throwing me a red-lipped smirk over his shoulder. "Honestly, you guys are ninety percent hot air, and ten percent actual fucking…"

I lube myself up quickly, but it's nowhere quick enough for him. The noise he makes as I slide my cock into him is pure hunger, and when I start to really give it to him, he twists and wriggles underneath me like he can barely stand it. It takes a firm hand on his wrists and another tangled in his hair to get him under control, and even then I feel like I'm an inch away from losing my grip on him. Those moans, those sighs, they're tailor-made to get your blood pumping. How Sidney ever lasts more than a minute with a boy like this squealing and groaning underneath him, I don't know.

"All that noise…" Sidney tuts, and shakes his head. "You're like a dog in heat, aren't you? Whining and crying for someone to come and give you what you need…" He holds his dry hand up to Scott's mouth, and like clockwork the boy's lips part, and he takes three of Sidney's fingers inside, right up to the knuckle. "That's right," Sidney says, stroking his other hand over his cock, "as long as you've got something filling that pretty ass and something to suck on, you're in heaven, aren't you?"

Scott whimpers around his fingers, and nods slightly. His eyes are fixed on Sidney's cock, and when I let my gaze follow his, I get stuck on the sight too. That’s the part of all this I can't let myself think about too much. The fact that deep-down, I'm hoping one day Sidney's going to get an urge to try something different, something a bit older and rougher, the hope that one day he's going to make a move on _me_ , that one day I'll get a taste of those long, slender hands and that reddish-bronze cock, that's the kicker. That's what I only let my mind stray onto right at the end, when I'm almost at my limit.

"You ready to wrap this up?" he says, giving me a big friendly smile, as he watches me watching him.

"Sure," I say, nodding, as I pick up my pace. He knows. Of course he knows, and it's a testament to his good sense that he's never pushed the issue, either to keep me sweet or to make me back off. He knows just as well as any of my boys do how to keep a guy on the hook.

"Open wide," he says, sliding his fingers out of Scott's mouth and down to grip the boy's chin. I can't see it, but I can picture Scott's lips and tongue, pink and wet and ready for it, a perfect canvas, an irresistible target. As Sidney lets go, I watch his fist moving over his cock, I watch his come arcing up in thick white ropes that spatter across the boy's cheek and forehead, and as I feel myself slipping, I don't know which half of it is more to blame, the thought of being in Sidney's place, or in Scott's.

 

* * *

 

"If there are any problems," Yves says, keeping my hand clasped loosely in his, "do get in touch, we're only a telephone call away."

"Sure," I say, giving him a big grin. "Don't you worry, your boys'll do you proud, like always."

And he gives me a taut little smile, as if to say: _It wasn't my boys I was worried about._

"You're quite sure you won't come back with us, just for a few days?" Stefan says, holding one of David's hands in both of his.

"Quite sure," David says, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. "I really can't get away, my dear, you know we're running on a skeleton staff as it is."

Stefan pouts, and murmurs "Well, if you _really_ can't…"

"He _really_ can't," I say, putting my slave-driver voice on. "But if you're going to miss him that much, you can always stay behind and lend a hand."

"Well, then," Sidney says, clapping me on the shoulder, cutting me off before I find myself straying over the line. "We'd better make a start, or we'll be late. Take care, Johnny."

"You too, and don't be a stranger, drop by any time you want." I give him a smile that matches his own, and then I lift that attention up and move it over to Scott. "And feel free to drop in on your own, sweetheart, if you can manage to slip away unchaperoned."

"Honestly," the boy tuts, giving me the kind of knowing smile he must throw at all of Sidney's hangers-on. "You're _so_ silly…"


	4. Chapter 4

"Such a shame about Kitty…" Fielding says, with a big sigh, as if the boy's dead. "This place really isn't the same without him."

"You're right," I say, patting him on the shoulder. "You've just got to hope he's happy where he is," I carry on, edging him slowly towards the setup me and Aaron have been planning all week. "That's all I want for any of these boys, you know, Mr Fielding. I just want them to be happy."

He looks up at me and nods slowly, as if we're sharing a delicate, secret feeling, something that none of the other punters could begin to understand. "Yes, I know what you mean."

"And so many of them have had such a rough start," I say, giving a fairly convincing sigh of my own. "So many scars, so many bad memories. It's a miracle some of my boys are still in one piece."

"Oh, I know," he says, nodding again, and now I can see the old fire in his eyes. He's been sullen and tight-fisted ever since Kitty left, but hard-luck stories get his juices flowing, and if I can serve him up an opportunity to play saviour, he'll be eating out of the palm of my hand again in no time.

"Take that boy, for example," I carry on, nodding in Aaron's direction. "He's fresh off the streets, and he's had such a hard time of it, he's barely fit to be working at all. I don't think I've seen him smile even once, you know, in the month he's been working for me."

"Oh, that poor boy…" Fielding says quietly, as he gives Aaron the once-over. The boy's sitting on his own in one of the booths, fidgeting with a packet of matches, staring at the coaster on the table in front of him as if he's reading tea-leaves. He's still as thin as ever, but a few weeks of eating well and sleeping enough have given him an almost healthy look—which is precisely what we don't want, so now he's in the habit of adding a bit of powder to his face and a bit of kohl under his eyes, to bring back the pale-and-drawn look he used to pull off naturally. To the ignorant observer, Aaron looks like he hasn't had a good meal or a solid night's sleep in weeks. To me, he looks like he's well on the way to being a real little money-spinner.

"In fact," I say, lowering my voice a bit, "I'm a bit wary of sending him out with one of our common-or-garden clients, on account of he's still so delicate. Most guys around here have got no sensitivity, Mr Fielding. One night with the wrong client, and poor Aaron would be in pieces."

"Well," Fielding says, bringing his volume down to match mine, "why don't you let me take him out? Now that I know the score, I can look after him a bit, you know, just while he gets the hang of all this."

_Just while he gets the hang of all this_. I can't help smiling. If all this comes off the way we've planned it, Aaron's going to be taking Fielding's money for months, if not years.

"That's very generous of you," I say, giving him an apologetic smile, "but I can't ask you to babysit my new starters, Mr Fielding. Why don't you take one of the other boys with you tonight? David's free, if you want him."

"No, no," Fielding says, waving my objections away. "It's no trouble at all. You know I'm very fond of this place, Johnny, it's more than just a nightspot to me. Anything I can do to help, I'm more than happy to—" And he stops there, because right on cue, Aaron gets up and starts chatting to the guy that's just approached him. It's one of Tommy's friends from the Spartan, a big strapping bodybuilder called Stan, who was more than happy to earn a bit of extra cash helping us out. I almost feel sorry for Fielding as I watch him watching all this, because Stan really does look like the type who'd break your arm if you so much as looked at him funny.

"Ah, it's a moot point," I say, giving Fielding a shrug, as if to say: _What can I do?_ "Aaron's booked up tonight anyway, as it happens. But if he's still fit for work tomorrow, you can have him then, if you want?"

"Yes," Fielding says, nodding absently as he watches Aaron disappear off out of door with Stan. "Yes, I'd like that very much."

 

* * *

 

I don't think I've ever met a more natural conman than Aaron. He's taken to this like a duck to water, and really, he might even be wasted as a renter. He should be doing door-to-door sales, relieving old dears of their life-savings. Maybe I'm doing society a favour, keeping his charms focused on the rich and gullible. You could almost call it a charitable endeavour.

"No, it's silly, you'll laugh at me," he's saying, in a soft little voice, while he nestles close to Fielding.

"I won't laugh, I promise."

"I was just thinking," the boy says, glancing up at Fielding with a shy smile, "the last time I felt this happy was when I was a little kid, before… Before all of that…" And he stops there, and looks down at the lighter he's fidgeting with—which, by the way, is a sleek gold Dunhill with a little engraved 'A' on the jacket—and gives a quiet, faint little sigh.

"That's not silly at all," Fielding says, bringing his other hand up to stroke the boy's hair. "The kind of guy that would laugh at that, well, I think—"

But I never get to find out what Fielding thinks, because the whole club comes to a screeching halt, as the doorman sticks his head through the main entrance and bellows "Police!"

A second later, he's shoved out of the way, swept aside by what seems like an endless river of uniformed coppers. It's like watching one of those big domino setups. The coppers swarm in, which gets all the clients up on their feet. The clients start making a move to leave, which gets the experienced boys standing up too, trying to soothe and coax the clients into staying put. It's the newer boys that react the worst. If I I've told them once I've told them a thousand times: _when we get raided, don't run_. But there's always a couple who do, and I always end up collecting a couple of them from the station afterwards. Must be my lucky day, though, because this time it's only Miles who bolts, and the beefy copper he tries to slip past barely has to stretch his arm to grab hold of the boy.

"You stay where you are, the lot of you," a gruff voice says, and then out from the middle of the gaggle of uniforms, an old guy in a suit pushes forward. I don’t recognise him, but I recognise the look on his face. That's real disgust. Not the put-on kind that Hudson likes to give us, which is just a springboard for a bit of name-calling and banter. It's not even the guilty kind that we get from some of the punters, which is half distaste for the boys, and half self-loathing. No, when this copper looks around at Cloud Nine, he does it with real hate in his eyes. This is the kind of guy who'd bring it all down, if he could.

"What's the problem?" I say, coming down the stairs slowly. "Someone forget to fill the parking meter?"

There's a smattering of hushed giggles from the boys, and the copper gives me an even bigger scowl than he was wearing when he walked in. "Mr Castro," he says, flashing me his warrant card, "you've gotten away with a lot since you started operating here, but this is one fix you aren't going to wriggle out of."

"Oh, is it?" I laugh, and give him my best sleazy smile. "Go on, try it, I love a challenge."

Underneath all the backchat, I've got a second, quieter voice in my head, running through what might have happened, and what I'm going to need to do to sort it out. A problem with that auditor? Maybe, but he had his boys three days ago, and what trouble could he have gotten into that'd take half a week to filter through to me? Maybe one of the boys has been moonlighting, getting up to some freelance mischief, and he's been caught red-handed? Could be, but I doubt it. They all know the rules. Just a standard raid, then? Can't be, because if it was, then all the clients would be wearing bracelets right now, not standing there gawping like a crowd at the circus.

"Well, I hope you like bad press, too," the copper says, "because when word gets out that your boys are in the habit of murdering their clients, I'd say you're finished."

And now the crowd aren’t just gawping, they're staring in horror. I'm still smiling, but underneath it, my head's full of gruesome calculations. It must be a stitch-up. Some meathead copper's bumped off the wrong guy, and now they're trying to use my boys as a herd of handy scapegoats. But surely if they want a chump to pin this on, they wouldn't go for a renter, they'd pick a tough-guy with a record, the type a jury wouldn't think twice about writing off. Okay, so it's probably not a frame-up. Right, so if one of the boys did do it, who's it likely to be? Not one of my boys, obviously. Must be one of Patrick's. Then I think about it for a minute, and the realisation that I've got it backwards kicks me right in the stomach. Out of me and Patrick, who's more likely to have lost control of his boys? Alright, so it'll be one of mine, but which one? These idiot coppers'll be after the boys who've been in gangs and street-fights, but I don't see it that way. I think the type of boy who kills a client is the type who doesn't know any better, and frankly, I could name you a dozen of them right off the top of my head.

"Alright," I say, shrugging, "if it's that serious, let's talk about it in private. You don't need my customers around for this, do you?"

"No," he says, waving his hand at the clump of worried-looking punters grimacing in his direction, "they can go. It's your boys I want to talk to."

"Talking's extra, you know," I say, grinning at him, and I put my hand on Tommy's arm for a moment, to give the kid his cue. He gives the security guys the nod, and the lot of them start shepherding the clients through the throng of coppers, out towards the door. As they leave, I watch their faces, trying to gauge who's going to shrug this off, who's going to be back twice as keen tomorrow night, and who's going to swear off this place for good. Every time we get raided, we lose some custom and gain some custom, and all-in-all I'd say it balances out, but I can't help wishing it wasn't a factor in the first place.

"Now, Mr Castro," the chief copper says, once the punters are gone, "which of your boys were working last night?"

"Off the top of my head, I couldn't say."

"You keep records, of course."

"Sure," I say, shrugging. "Probably. I know we've got some admin staff around here somewhere, I'll bet they've got it written down. Tommy, show these nice gentlemen into the admin office and help them look for the records, will you?"

"Sure thing, Johnny," the kid says, with a cheerful grin plastered all over his face, while he leads a handful of uniforms out into the back-office. They'll tear the place apart, but they won't find a thing, and we all know it. This is a waste of everyone's time, but if they're willing to go through the charade, then so am I.

"Ah," the copper says, "then of course, you wouldn't happen to know which of your boys was with Mr Harcourt when he died?"

"Afraid not." I give him a rough approximation of an apologetic smile. "Honestly, I couldn't tell you the names of the boys standing in this room with us, let alone who was with what customer last night. There's too many of them," I say, shaking my head, "and they all look the same to me."

"And you've no idea which of them might be prone to violence?"

"My boys wouldn't harm a fly."

"Well, one of them clearly would."

"If you had evidence of that," I say, keeping my smile nice and light, "you wouldn't need me to give you a list of names, would you?"

"Why don't you be smart and cooperate?" he says, with a quiet sigh. "I know you people don't think much of the police, Mr Castro, but this is _murder_. A man died last night, most likely at the hands of one of your employees. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

I smile, and shrug, but it does mean something. It means that as soon as I can get rid of this copper, I need to get Crawford on the phone.


	5. Chapter 5

"Alright, boys," I say, giving them all what I hope is a confident smile. "Everyone ready to go?"

Three-dozen voices say "Yeah, Johnny," almost in unison, and for a moment I get a little kick of what it must be like to be Joe. Alright, so my boys aren't going to break any heads, but you can't blame me for getting a bit of satisfaction out of all this. The club's been under observation for a couple of days now, and the amount of people they've thrown at it is impressive, but it's still no match for my staff. The boys'll find Sandy in no time at all, they'll deliver my message and be back in the club by closing time, and there's not a damn thing those coppers can do about it. They can keep a guy stationed outside the club at all hours, and they can tail me and Tommy and David every time we go out, but can they tail thirty renters all going in different directions? They don't stand a chance.

"Go on, then, get lost." I wave my hands, shooing the boys away, and the lot of them scatter like a pack of rats. Some head out the main entrance, some out the side way, and some out the staff door, but all of them leave with the same hurried, tense air. Even the ones that can't act are doing a perfect job, because they all know how important their roles are right now. This isn't put-on tension, this is real fear. No-one wants to be the guy that screwed up and got his colleague nicked.

"You sure you don't want me out there too, Johnny? The coppers'd definitely think it was me carrying the message, wouldn't they?"

"No, don't be dense," I say, putting my arm around Tommy's waist. "I need you here with me. You're the only thing keeping me from losing the plot right now, mister, so you're not going anywhere."

"Alright," he says, with a faraway look in his eyes.

"Come on, you can keep me company while I wait for Sandy to call."

He says "Sure thing, Johnny," but there's none of the usual fire in his voice. He sounds like he's coming down with something, and I know exactly what the problem is, but I don't want to push him. He's got to tell me in his own time.

"Johnny," he says, once we're settled on the sofa in my office, with the door closed and locked behind us, "why d'you reckon he did it, then?"

"I don't know, could be all kinds of reasons."

He leans against me, and rests his head on my shoulder, and says "D'you think it was an accident?"

"Maybe," I say, trying to pick my words delicately. "Hudson said the ashtray was still where Sandy dropped it, so he must have been in a panic when he left. I reckon he hit the guy in anger, but I don't think he meant to kill him."

"D'you think it was about the money, like the coppers said?"

"No, that's just police logic for you," I sigh. "The boys earn too much to get tough about money, but as far as the coppers are concerned, they're one step up from loan-sharks. There's nothing those guys wouldn't try to pin on my boys."

Tommy's silent for a minute, and all I can hear is the muffled music coming through the closed door. I know he's thinking about it, and who can blame him? This has got _me_ brooding about the things I did when I was younger, and my list might be longer, but it's sure as hell lighter to carry. No wonder Tommy's suffering.

"I reckon it's better if he did mean it," the kid says, eventually. "If he meant it, he wouldn't feel half as mixed up afterwards."

 

* * *

 

"Johnny, it's me."

"Sandy," I say, as relieved as if the boy was standing in front of me, "are you alright?"

"No," he says, hushed and frantic, "I'm scared, Johnny, I don’t know what to do, I—"

"It's alright," I interrupt him, "you just do what I say, and it'll all be alright."

"Okay," he says quietly, "okay, Johnny."

"You know I'll look after you. I always have, haven't I?"

"Yes, you have."

"Right." I nod to myself, gearing up to ask the question no-one wants to hear. "So you need to be honest with me, Sandy. What happened with Harcourt?"

"It was— it was bad, Johnny, I can't—" He stops, and I hear a lot of laboured breathing. He must be barely holding it together.

"Did he do something? Something he shouldn't have?"

"Yes," the boy says, in a small, weak voice. "I tried to get out, but he wouldn't— It was bad, Johnny, I couldn't get out, and—" A heavy sob bursts out of him, and the whole story's wrapped up in the sound of those tears.

"Alright, Sandy, it's okay," I say, as quiet and soft as I can manage. "It's not your fault, you did the only thing you could. All you need to think about now is keeping away from the coppers, alright?"

"Alright, Johnny," he says, in a shaky little echo of the obedience I've heard from him a hundred times before.

"The boys said you're in the safehouse near Masons, is that right?"

"Yes."

"Alright, stay there. I'm going to send someone around to get you, only it won't be one of our guys. It'll be someone from Mr Middleton's group," I say, trying to figure out who Sidney's likely to send. "You know them, don't you?"

"Yes, I went—" He stops, swallows down another sob, and carries on. "I went over there once, last year."

"Alright, then. You just sit tight until Middleton's guys get there, okay?"

"Okay, Johnny."

"That's what I like to hear."

"Johnny!" he says suddenly, just as I'm about to say goodbye.

"Yeah?"

"It wasn't my fault, was it, Johnny?"

"No, it wasn't," I say, and in my head the line completes itself: _if it was anyone's fault, it was mine._

 

* * *

 

If you'd told me ten years ago that one day I'd be orchestrating something this big, I'd have said you were mad. Nowadays it all seems pretty straightforward. Arrange for one of Sidney's guys to come and collect Sandy? No problem. Get Bryant to go round and sort out Sandy's flat, ready for when the coppers eventually find it? Piece of cake. Send Foster and his friends out to rustle up a dozen witnesses who'll swear blind that they saw a young man with red hair, blue eyes, and a worried expression getting on a southbound train last Saturday morning, clutching an overstuffed holdall and wearing a distinctive brown leather jacket? That's about as taxing as a leisurely stroll to the newsagents. Yeah, it's all sorted, done and dusted, no problem at all. Only I've got a sinking feeling that ten years from now, forty-year-old me is going to shaking his head at the memory of all this, wincing at how many loose ends I'm leaving around to trip myself up.

It's been a week since we smuggled Sandy out, and in that time business has all but settled down. We've picked up a few new clients who got drawn in by the splash this made in the papers, and by my reckoning we're almost back to our normal take. The punters are pretty much back to normal, but the boys are still feeling the effects. Some of them act tough about it, but if I know my boys, every single one of them's been running this whole scenario through in their heads, over and over, since the day Sandy left. We all do it. Something bad happens to someone you know, and you spend the next few days making up stories about how they could have prevented it, and you'd have been smarter about it, and that kind of thing's never going to happen to you. Only you know deep down that you can't prevent it, that it's all down to chance, and one day it might be you standing over some scumbag's body trying to figure out how you'll get away. We all know that, but we all do a grade-A job of pretending like everything's just fine, everything's back to normal, no trouble at all.

"So," I say, giving Aaron a nice casual smile, "how're you getting on with Fielding, then?"

"It's going great," he laughs. "That's one silver lining, out of all this business with Sandy. The commotion's got Fielding really worked up, he's been spending like crazy since it happened."

"Good, keep pressing him," I laugh, "and maybe if you're lucky he'll offer to take you away from all this permanently."

"I wouldn't go for that," the boy says, shrugging. "I guess it's flattering, but I don't want to be tied down to one guy. It'd take a lot for me to give up the freedom I've got here."

"Well, never say never." I pat him on the shoulder, and stand up. "Right, time to do the rounds again. Honestly, I swear I work harder at customer relations than all of you boys put together…"

"Johnny," he says, suddenly, as I'm turning to go. "What's going to happen to Sandy?" And the look in his eyes makes the rest of the question clear: _What's going to happen to me, if I end up in the same kind of trouble someday?_

"Well, he'll stay in Mr Middleton's territory for a while, to begin with."

"Working for Patrick?"

"Not working at all," I say, shaking my head. "Not at first, anyway. Think of it like being injured on the job. You get time off to recover, and then eventually, if you're up to it, you get to go back to work, doing whatever you can manage."

"You're not sending him straight back out to rent, then?"

"Not a chance." I can't help laughing, because it's such a horrible thought. "Most guys we send over there to lay low, they take the opportunity to go for a change of job afterwards. There's not many guys that want to go back to the work they were doing before."

"No," he says, "no, I'll bet there aren't."

"And besides, there's plenty of nice, quiet jobs that need doing on Mr Middleton's turf. Sandy'll end up doing the filing in some cosy little office somewhere. Give it a few years and he'll probably be the senior office manager at Middleton Distribution Limited."

"Oh, so if I want a cushy office job, all I've got to do is get myself into hot water?" Aaron smirks at me, but I can see the relief in his eyes.

"Yeah," I say, grinning, "that or get yourself promoted to Club Manager."


	6. Chapter 6

"Johnny, that copper's here to see you," the kid says, in a flat, grim voice. "The one from last week."

"Just him?"

"Just him."

"Alright, send him in."

Tommy nods, and closes the door again. I should be worrying about getting a follow-up visit, but somehow all I can think about is the blank, hard look on the kid's face. I should be gearing myself up to smooth things over, since according to Hudson, this new copper's not going to be put off easily. The best Cole can do is slow him down, and that's bad news for everyone. That's where my mind should be, but instead it's following Tommy around, watching the way his expression freezes over when he thinks no-one's looking, the way his brow furrows like he's figuring out a tough question over and over and over, but there's no solution, and no end to any of it.

The door opens, and I force myself to put all of that aside. "Hello again, Inspector Wilson," I say, not bothering to get up. "Nice of you to drop in."

"It's Detective Chief Inspector," he says, as he closes the door behind.

"Oh, is it? My mistake, I'm terrible with details."

He sits down without being asked, and gives me a steady, hard look. "Let's get straight to the point, shall we?"

I spread my hands, and say "Go ahead."

"You've had all this tidied up very neatly, haven't you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"The boy got away, and he left behind more than enough evidence to prove that he's gone, but nowhere near enough to help us track him down."

"Well, he must have been a dark horse, that one," I say, shrugging. "Sounds like he had more brains than we gave him credit for."

"Is that right?"

"Maybe we underestimated him all along." I smile at him, and lean back in my chair. "Dangerous thing to do, underestimating a boy just because he's on the game. They're not all brainless bits of fluff, you know."

"No," Wilson says, grimacing. "Some of them are murderers."

"I could say the same about your lot."

He scoffs, and shakes his head. "I hear the same attitude from every thug and every conman I meet these days, the same false equivalence. I even hear it on the job. Do you know what Inspector Hudson told me, when he handed this case over? He told me there's no point wasting police time on this, when we could leave you to discipline the boy internally."

"Just like your auditors, eh?" I grin at him. "Tell Hudson I said thanks for the compliment."

"He's got it backwards, and so have you." Wilson gets up, and looks down at me like he's spotted a woodlouse crawling along his skirting-board. "The law applies to you, Castro, just the same as it applies to anyone else. I intend to see that it's enforced."

"Sounds like a strenuous job," I say, staying where I am. "I'd offer you one of the boys to help you relax, but I guess you don't have much use for company, right?"

He grimaces at me again, shakes his head, and leaves without another word.

Yeah, just like Hudson said, this is going to be bad for everyone. They had a moral crusader around here a while back, he said. Before my time, before the boss had even gotten established. They put a stop to him eventually, but it took a lot of time and money, a lot of collaboration, and it made a dirty great splash in the papers. Even got into a few of the nationals, Hudson said. Imagine Miller's face if we had to go that far. No, this isn’t going to be pretty, but d'you know what? That's the least of my worries. My number-one priority is standing outside my office right now, gearing himself up to come and talk to me.

"Johnny, you got a minute?" the kid says, with a casual little knock at my door.

"Course I have, come in."

The door opens, and Tommy makes his entrance, slowly and distractedly. His hands are shoved in his pockets, and there's a hard frown on his lips.

I smile at him, as if I haven't noticed that frown, and say "Is that copper gone, then?"

"What?"

"Is he gone?"

"Oh. Yeah, he's gone." The kid closes the door behind him, and turns to face me, but I feel like his mind is a hundred miles away.

"Come and sit down, Tommy." I move over to the sofa, and pat the seat next to me. "These last few days have been hard-going for both of us, and I could do with a bit of TLC."

He sits down next to me, and when I take hold of his hand, I can feel it shaking a little bit, just faintly, gentle enough you'd never notice if you weren't on the lookout. His palm is cool and clammy, and there's a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead, as if it was the middle of summer. He looks like he's barely keeping himself together, and knowing that there's nothing I can do about it, that's got to be the worst feeling in the world.

"You alright, kid?" I say, squeezing his hand. It's the nearest I'll risk to a direct question about all of this, and I still feel like maybe I've gone too far.

"Sure," he says, weakly.

"Sure?"

He doesn't answer, but he shakes his head, and squeezes my hand in his. "The thing is, Johnny," he says, suddenly, "I keep thinking, what if someone finds out? What if one day the coppers come for _me?_ "

"Oh, Tommy…" I put both arms around him, and pull him close. "No-one's going to find out."

"Yeah, but what if they do? Sandy didn't mean what he did, but he could've hung for it anyway, couldn't he?" The kid puts his head on my shoulder, and I can feel the unevenness of his breath against the skin of my throat. "Just like me. If someone found out, I'd hang too, wouldn't I?"

"No." I shake my head, and hug him tighter. "I wouldn't let anything happen to you."

He's silent for a minute or so, and then much more quietly, he says "Would you send me away, Johnny? Like you sent Sandy away?"

"We'd go somewhere together. Just you and me. The boss would sort it all out, don't you worry."

"I do worry, though," he says, with that tight sound at the heart of his voice, the one that means he's trying not to cry. "I didn't mean it, what I did, but neither did Sandy, and he—"

"Listen," I say, as firm as I can, "there's only a few people beside me and you that knows about this, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, how about I ask the boss if he can get all that tidied up?"

Tommy's silent again, for a few seconds this time, and I can feel his hands gripping the fabric of my shirt tightly, as if he's hanging onto a life-raft. Finally he looks up at me, and says "You mean like he did with you?"

"Exactly." I smile down at him, and kiss his forehead. "It's not a clean slate, but it's better than nothing, right?"

There's another few seconds of silence, as he weighs it up. "Yeah," he says, cautiously, "but would he do that for me, though?"

"If I asked him to, I'll bet he'd at least consider it. He did it for me, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but you're _his_ , ain't you?"

"Sure," I laugh, "and you're mine, and that means the old man's probably just waiting for me to ask the question."

He puts his head back on my shoulder, and for a moment I think he's going to let the subject drop. Maybe it's too much to think about. Maybe he's not ready to go that far, even if he is scared stiff.

"Alright," he says, finally. "Can you ask him for me, please?"

"Course I can, you just leave it to me." I squeeze him as tightly as I can. "You just leave everything to me."

 

* * *

 

"This is a surprise," Camille says, shifting a bit in his seat, so that his robe falls open a little more. "I thought you weren't going to be free until the weekend?"

It's a nice sight, all that plum-coloured silk and bare brown skin, but it's not why I'm here. "Sorry," I say, leaning down to give him a quick kiss, "but I need a private word with the boss."

When I stand upright again, the old man's looking at me with a hint of a smile on his lips. He looks as foreboding when he's relaxing in a big fancy armchair as he does when he's sitting in his office, and even now I can't help feeling a shiver snaking down my spine. "Camille," he says, glancing at the boy. "Go and wait downstairs."

Camille gets to his feet without hesitation, and gives me a brief, light embrace. "I'll be in the lounge. Come and see me before you go, if you get the chance."

"Sure," I say, and I watch him padding out of the study, as quiet as a cat.

"Well?" The boss points at the sofa where Camille was sitting, and I take my place as automatically as if he'd shoved me down onto the seat himself. The leather's still warm where Camille's legs were draped, and I can't stop my hand stroking it idly as I talk.

"It's about Tommy."

"Go on."

"Well, sir," I say, willing myself to keep it calm and un-jumbled, "when he was younger, before he worked for us, he did a bit of mugging."

"I know."

Of course he knows. "You know about the job that went wrong, then, sir?"

"Yes," he says, nodding.

"Well, it's years ago, and I reckon if anyone was going to come forward about it, they'd already have done it," I say, feeling my cheeks getting hot, "but the kid's worried, boss. He's nervous about it coming back to bite him—to bite _us_. So I was thinking, could you have a word with your contacts over there, and see if they can get it cleared up? It's mostly paperwork, there's only a few witnesses, so—"

"These witnesses," he interrupts me, hard and solid, and it's like running into a brick wall. "Do you want them fixing permanently?"

"No, sir, just paying-off," I say, wondering whether it's more Tommy's squeamishness or mine that I'm talking about. "The kid doesn't want any more killing."

"Fine."

And that's it. Done, agreed, sorted, no bargaining required. For a moment all the things I was gearing up to offer in exchange, all the good reasons, all the bullet-points of my business-case, they all go running through my mind in one long embarrassing chain, and I can feel my face going as red as the velvet of the curtains.

"Anything else?" he says, with a look that says: _Stop wasting my time and get out of here._

"No, sir." I stand up, and try to tamp my grin down into a grateful smile. "Thanks for agreeing to this, boss, it's going to make the kid's day, he's going to be over the moon when I tell him—"

"Johnny."

"Yes, sir?"

"You should have dealt with this sooner." He says it calmly and coldly, and it hits me like a good backhand.

"Well, the kid's only just brought it up, boss."

"He's your responsibility," the old man carries on. "That boy depends on you. You should be thinking about his best interests."

"I am, sir."

"Not enough." He shakes his head. "Not anywhere near enough. You should be anticipating problems like this, and talking them through with him long before matters come to a head."

"Well, it's—" I stammer, "it's complicated, sir. I can't predict how he's going to feel about every little thing that crops up, can I?"

"You'll have to," the boss says, and his voice is like granite. "If you're going to take a boy under your wing, Johnny, you've got to stay two steps ahead. How else can he trust you to take care of him?"

That's the thing. Tommy _does_ trust me, but maybe he shouldn't. Maybe the boss has seen right through me, and what he's found underneath all the bravado and the smooth-talking is just a stupid punk with delusions of grandeur. Makes me wonder how much I would've messed things up with Tommy, if I didn't have the boss around to set me straight.

"You're right, sir," I say, after a minute or so. "I'm sorry."

He doesn't say a word. He just reaches into his pocket, and takes out his cigar case. I've got my lighter out before the cigar's reached his lips, and as I lean forward to light it, his eyes meet mine. They're so cold, even now, it's like having a snake staring you down, but the flame of the lighter sparks up between us, and gives me the signal I'm waiting for. Maybe I'm just a stupid chump, but the boss still trusts me, he still wants me around. I'm not in the doghouse, and to me that feels like being on top of the world.

"Alright," the old man says, with another faint smile. "Now get out."


End file.
